Legacy
by Phantasmagorical Carnival
Summary: Modern AU, not in the way you think though. May become a collection of unrelated oneshots. T for blood.
1. Legacy

**A/N:** So, my first story, I hope it isn't too ooc. Please review when you are done.

**Disclamer:**I do not own Kuroshitsuji. No, really.

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><p>He had heard rumors, and they turned out to be true.<p>

Charles Gray, agent of the government that had been searching for these traitors for the past six years: Earl Ciel Phantomhive, heir to the Phantomhive lands and titles and his guardian Sebastian Michaelis. Sebastian had taken the young earl out of England in order to protect him from his duties to the Queen.

But now the Queen had found him, in this small bar in Costa Rica, where her agent walked in through the door and was slightly blinded by the bright murals on the walls despite the dim lighting in the bar. Charles Gray looked for his quarry, and found him behind the bar.

Phantomhive, a small skinny boy for the age of sixteen, was standing behind the bar reading a book. Laws in this Middle American country were lax enough to allow a boy under the drinking age to serve alcohol, and potentially do some drinking behind the bar. Of course from what Charles Gray knew, Phantomhive had a delicate constitution, so it wasn't like anyone was going to catch him drinking anything stronger than wine. And besides, it was three o'clock in the afternoon, only the most devoted of drinkers were in the bar right now, and they wouldn't be having their bartender arrested anytime soon.

One of the customers spoke up: "Oye! Muchacho! Mas de la vodka!"

Charles watched as the boy lifted his head, revealing one eye to be covered by a black eye patch. Then he bent down to get a large bottle from behind the bar that was filled halfway with clear spirits. It almost seemed too big for the slender boy to pick up, but his hand was steady as he refilled the glass. It seemed that he was going to stop at about two fingers, but the customer encouraged him with nods until the glass was brimming.

He shrugged and stooped to set the bottle back out of sight. When he straightened up again he looked around the bar and spotted Charles.

Charles took that as his cue to abandon his position by the door and walk up to the bar, keeping one eye on Phantomhive, the other on his surroundings should the black haired fiend show up to interrupt the two of them.

He was careful to keep his face in a calm friendly expression, both his predecessors in this hunt had tried for the extremes, the first one thought he could just bully and browbeat Phantomhive into obedience, the second was overly friendly and jokey. Both had been found in the nearest large body of water without their heads. The closest that the analysts can figure was that Phantomhive had some sort of panic button that would alert his leathal servant to his distress and bring him running.

So Charles would have to be careful, it would be tricky to watch Phantomhive's hands while they were mostly hidden behind the bar, but he could do it.

"Earl Phantomhive," he began, careful to keep his face calm and friendly, but not too friendly. "Do you know why I am here?"

"Yes." The boy looked at him, his face unreadable, and his single dark blue eye blank.

"You know that you don't need to keep running, England is willing to take care of you. There will be a place in the new British Empire for you."

The boy continued to say nothing. But both his hands were safely on the counter, which meant that there seemed to be no alarm in him.

"What happened to your parents was an accident, wires got crossed in the orders. It was never supposed to happen." Charles said.

Rachel and Victor Phantomhive, last of the elite group of the league known as the Evil Noblemen had been scapegoats, Charles knew, their deaths were used to unite England once more, especially since there was no need for that particular group anymore. Their deaths had paved the way for Charles' organization.

But there was no reason for the boy to know that.

Phantomhive's hand flew to his eye patch, and then just as quickly lowered it, just briefly brushing the black surface of the patch with the tips of his fingers.

Charles paused for a moment, gazing with interest at the black patch, it was said that Phantomhive had lost that eye either in the "accident" that he had lost his parents in or when he had disappeared into the murky, lawless underground in which children were bought and sold and sometimes used in occult rituals. But Charles had different information, the files on the Phantomhives said that, allegedly, each Phantomhive was born with a certain birthmark, and this particular Phantomhive was born with it on his eye. It was hard to know because his family had spent so much time out of the public eye, no one knew the reason for the boy's patch.

He brought his thoughts back on track. "You know that your fiancée misses you too, and your aunt."

The boy's mouth tightened, but that was the only reaction that he showed.

Stroke and slap, stroke and slap. "Of course if you were to come back, all of your estates and wealth has been protected. We know that a wrong has been done to you, and England wishes to make amends."

Once again the boy's face turned perfectly blank. And despite himself, Charles began wondering again about the possibility of a secret, genetic birthmark that marked out all Phantomhives.

He chanced a small smile, just enough to soften his features. "You can be great again." He took out his card. "We can speak again soon." He stood from his seat at the bar and turned to leave.

"Wait." Phantomhive reached out to grab his sleeve. He paused, biting his lip, "come on," he muttered. And he led Charles to the door, he called over his shoulder: "Bard! Watch the bar!"

A tall man smoking a cigarette with shaggy blonde hair nodded and heaved himself out of his seat to make his way over to the counter.

Phantomhive led Charles through a series of alleyways until the two of them came out to an empty plaza with a fountain in the center and no shade.

"What is this place called?" He asked Phantomhives' back.

"La Plaza del Fuego de Dios." His spoke the fluid language flawlessly. And he nodded to a small church that was opposite them. It was shaped from tan stone and looked dusty and abandoned.

Charles looked around carefully to see whether there was anyone around. There was none. He looked back at the boy waiting for him to speak first. His back was to him.

"Do you know why we were called the Evil Noblemen?" Phantomhive asked suddenly.

"Huh?"

"My father told me just before he died," Phantomhive went on, ignoring Charles. "The entire organization took the name but it was originally for the Phantomhives alone." Phantomhive glanced at him over his shoulder. "We are called that because each and every one of us is born with a sin."

Something about the way that the boy said 'sin' made Charles' skin crawl.

"Most children are born a clean slate, but not the Phantomhives, they have a sin that dwells in their very bloodline. And not a simple one like pride, or the tendency to gluttony, but the worst sin, do you know what that is?"

Charles shook his head, and then quickly realizing that the boy would have not seen him spoke: "No." he thought that he sounded nervous. He watched Phantomhive reach behind his head and pull loose the knot that held the patch in place.

"Conspiring with the Devil." Phantomhive turned to look at him, and Charles saw that his eye, the eye that was supposed to be gone, was instead branded with a symbol that he had never seen before.

He sensed a presence behind him, and whirled around.

"He's very good, young master, the other two didn't sense me before." Standing before Charles was the damnable servant who had interfered with his organization before. But now, looking at his black hair, and his black clothing, and his red eyes, a terrifying notion hit Charles.

Something held him frozen in place as the servant reached out and wrapped his hands around his throat, out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the same symbol that was on Phantomhives' eye was also on the back of the servants left hand.

There was a moment of pain as his throat was squeezed, and then nothing.

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><p>Ciel didn't look away as Gray's body slumped to the ground, blood running freely from his crushed throat. Although his stomach did turn at the sight of all the red, it brought back too many uncomfortable memories, from before Sebastian found him.<p>

"You remind me of your Grandfather."

"What?" he demanded irritably.

"Your grandfather, young master, he also had a weak stomach. Your father was a bit stronger, but then your mother was a frail woman."

"Do you think we will need to move again?" Ciel immediately hated himself for how young he sounded when he said those words. And that he sounded weak enough so that he was trying to change the subject.

But Sebastian was too good a butler to comment. "I think not, young master, from what your father said before, Charles grey was a confident man, he wouldn't be one to report mere speculation before a confirmation."

"You were watching him, you knew he was here." Ciel accused.

"It was my original plan for him to never get to you at all." Sebastian bowed.

"But you let him anyway." He growled.

Sebastian said nothing, just smirked and bowed again.

Ceil shook his head, there were some things you just couldn't win, no matter how much it irked him to admit that. "Get rid of that. I'm going back to the bar."

Sebastian bowed at his young master's retreating back.


	2. Beginning

**A/N:** Okay, so I would really like reviews for this little series, I need everyone to tell me how to improve my writing.

**Disclamer:** I do not own Kuroshitsuji, really.

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><p>So, this is to be his next master.<p>

Sebastian looked down at the bassinet that held the heir to the Funtom Company. It was a tiny, peculiar little thing; a bundle of strange sounds and smells that his current master adored for seemingly no reason other than the fact that it was a little piece of him.

He was so devoted to the creature he had initially ordered Sebastian to stay away from him. Of course there was no reason for that other than superstition. What harm would a demon be to a baby? They had no life experience, no real opinions, they were alive but they were only human in form, not in soul. They only became edible when they became older. While it was true that a baby's soul was the pinnacle of innocence, that wasn't the only criteria. Besides, Sebastian had always preferred more complex souls, not the basic good ones.

But then, humans had always been irrational creatures. For instance, his first master, the one who had bound him to the Phantomhive line was a clever, canny man who was brilliant in his own way. Except for the way that he could always forget that his most trusted servant was a demon.

His oversight kept him from ordering Sebastian to never harm him. His wording was such that Sebastian could have ended this whole tedious business at the beginning. But he hadn't, choosing instead to allow himself to be bound to generations of humans.

It wasn't a bad position, really. It had the promise of entertainment and steady meals for as long as there were Phantomhives.

Of course their spouses were another story, too often Sebastian had been ordered to silence a particularly noisy wife or husband; the orders coming, in a true Phantomhive way, from their partner themselves, full of family pride and a need to succeed at any cost.

Of course there were exceptions. Rachel had proven herself most able to keep the secret, even from her sister that the infamous Phantomhive butler wasn't even human.

The small creature wiggled and gave a soft moan, lifting and waving its arms around. Without thinking Sebastian leaned farther down and offered his forefinger, clad in a white glove still, for the baby to grasp. It did so with surprising strength, and opened its eyes.

Sebastian was struck, yet again, by its right eye, a perfect, reverse etching of the symbol on his own left hand.

The Phantomhive who first made this contract with Sebastian had chosen to have the seal placed on his right eye, but for the subsequent generations the seal had shown up on random places in the body, on the inner forearm, on the side of the neck, never in the same place twice.

Except for now.

Sebastian wondered if it was an omen for something. He was too old to not be practiced at noticing different portents. One did not immerse themselves in the supernatural just to ignore the different signs.

He wondered what the position of the seal would mean for this Phantomhive.

The baby tugged at Sebastian's finger, pulling the digit down to his mouth, where he immediately began gnawing on it.

Startled, Sebastian pulled his finger free without thinking, and then winced as the child protested.

"Shhh," he soothed the child automatically, it had been this Phantomhives' great grandfather who had made Sebastian act as a nursemaid. It had been a time when the Phantomhives lost all their wealth and all they had left was Sebastian. But he had been wise enough to hold onto the land he had rather than attempt to sell it. When they began building for the war again the money flowed in again. And Sebastian was too good a butler to ever forget one of his duties from the past.

He pulled off one of the gloves and placed his forefinger back into the baby's hands, feeling around when the boy pulled his finger back into his mouth. Yes, just as he suspected, the baby was beginning to teeth, and early too, he would have to warn the Master. He wondered if this was yet another sign of forewarning: A child who had the most control and protection from Sebastian who had also begun to cut his teeth early.

"Getting ready to face the world already, aren't you?" He murmured to Ciel Phantomhive.

The Young Master didn't reply, he simply continued chewing on Sebastian's finger. He couldn't help but smile, humans were such strange creatures, guided by such powerful instinct, yet still offering up trust at the slightest whim.

Eventually the baby fell asleep, dozing of contently after scratching his gums on Sebastian's finger.

"What are you doing, Sebastian?"

He turned around to see the Master, Vincent Phantomhive.

"I have been getting aquainted with the Young Master, my lord. It seems he is beginning to teeth," Sebastian replied, bowing slightly.

"I see…do you like him?" Vincent asked, leaning back against the wall. He still managed to exude a casual air despite being in his pajamas, Sebastian was surprised to note.

"I'm sure I don't understand what you mean, my lord." He answered cautiously.

"Nevermind then," he said, walking up to Sebastian and standing beside him to look down at his son. "Sometimes I forget that you don't think in the way we do, I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize, my lord, it is simply confirmation as to how well I am doing my duty."

Vincent Phantomhive simply smiled at his gaffe, and continued looking down at the child. "He is going to be a fine boy, and a strong man, I can tell." He reached down to touch the sleeping child on his cheek.

"Of course."

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><p>The snarl and crackle of the fire nearly deafened Sebastian as he raced through the burning estate, feverishly searching every single room to find his master and mistress.<p>

He inhaled smoke and soot and paid it no mind. Parting flame and willing debris to vanish, he searched on.

Finally, he got some sense of where his master was. Sebastian found Vincent Phantomhive in the study on the ground level. He was injured, his leg twisted behind him. He lifted his head as Sebastian entered, clearing the flame from the room.

"Sebastian," his voice was low and urgent, "Ciel was captured. Find him."

"But, my lord you and Lady Phantom—"

"Rachel is dead, and I am a marked man now, they will be able to find and kill me no matter what. But Ciel was taken away before they came. Find him."

"But—"

"Damn you Sebastian, I am ordering you!" Vincent began clawing at his shirt, tearing it open to reveal the Seal of Contract on his collarbone. "Find Ciel now. Protect and obey him with everything you have. Teach him everything I didn't get a chance to about the contract." He winced. "Tell him the truth, it's his only ally now."

Sebastian was frozen, twin demands of the Seal tearing at him. Finally he nodded and turned his back on Vincent Phantomhive.

On his orders.

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><p>Sebastian sat in a pub, poring over maps of ancient and modern London that he had filched from the British Museum. He had spent two weeks searching the whole of London according to where a child might be hidden in these days, and found nothing.<p>

He knew that Ciel couldn't have been taken out of London because he could still sense the boy was alive and within the boundaries of the city. However he couldn't narrow it down simply because the boy had never been taught how to use the Seal.

It was something he would have to remedy.

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><p>Ciel's arms tightened around Sebastian's neck as he walked down the pier, carrying his Young Master as he searched for a suitable vessel to sneak aboard.<p>

"Where are we going?" the boy's voice sounded harsh and indifferent. He had aged a thousand years in the month that it took for Sebastian to find him.

It shocked Sebastian's ear, he could remember the happy, smiling child that Ciel was only a month ago. "I'm taking you to France. You're going to have to brush up on your French, Young Master."

"Okay, but why?"

"You are no longer safe in England, Young Master; the people who killed your parents will also be searching for you."

Ciel's arms tightened and loosened again as Sebastian made the leap from the pier to the deck of the ship that he had chosen.

"How long can we stay in France?"

"I don't know, until they find us again."

There was a silence as Sebastian began looking around the vessel, searching for a good hiding place for two people. It was a shipping vessel, and these days they were mostly automated so that there would only need to be three to five people actually on the ship.

In other words, there would be plenty of room to hide in.

"Very well then, to France."

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><p><strong>AN: **If you want to tell me my writing is awful, please do so nicely. I know this isn't one of my best.


	3. Prey

**A/N:** Well, this is something that I was wanting to try, sort of a different point of view thing. Hopefully I did it right.

**Disclamer:** I do not own Kuroshitsuji. Nor do I own the book that this little one shot had partially inspired.

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><p>Doctor Ratched looked at the young man, Ciel Phantomhive. He was playing a card game with other patients, and he seemed to be winning.<p>

That was one of the few things that he mentioned in his talks with the therapists or whenever he spoke with other patients: he always won games.

Other than that he was quiet, isolated from the other patients in the wards. Even by Doctor Ratched's standards he was an eerie person, always staring at people and things with that single big blue eye. The other was covered by a medical bandage that he insisted that he put on and take off himself.

He knew that when the attendants had tried to take the patch away from Mr. Phantomhive to see if his eye needed attention he had completely shut down, closing his eyes tight and curling into a ball and refusing to move.

All the nurse could do was sedate him and then check his eye. She refused to say anything about what she saw aside from the fact that the eye was in perfect health. And then she abruptly quit her job and then moved to India.

Doctor Ratched didn't know what to make of this, he was a rational, logical man and he refused to believe that the sight of someone's right eye could scare a person into moving out of the country.

But for some reason he didn't try to look at Mr. Phantomhive's eye himself. He knew it was a foolish hesitation, yet he still couldn't bring himself to confirm it.

He watched the slender man expertly shuffle the worn out cards for a new round. All the attendants paid close attention to the little game. They were very careful with the patients who used the cards since that infamous incident in which one patient attacked another with the card deck. He effectively scratched the other's face up nastily and nearly caused the victim's eye irreparable harm.

Although there was another reason as to why they watched the game. They were watching Ciel Phantomhive, who is one of the most perplexing patients who has been admitted to the ward.

He was a polite, soft spoken man who seemed younger than he actually was, almost too young to be admitted to the ward. Aside from his silence and refusal to remove his eye patch, which was an almost certain evidence of a compulsion that needed to be solved which would be a very long and delicate process, he seemed almost normal.

Of course there was the main thing that first brought him in here a month ago. It would probably keep him here for life unless he changes his thoughts and understood the truth.

Ciel Phantomhive was convinced that he was being followed by a demon.

The police who had first found Ciel Phantomhive had found him living on the streets, he hadn't been there for too long, he was too healthy and his clothing was too clean.

What first alerted them to his potential for becoming a patient of Doctor Ratched's was his behavior: he was sitting against a wall with his knees to his chin and staring out into the street, paying no attention to the people who were walking around him and accidently kicking him.

According to the police report he said, when they tried to get him to move, "I have to stay here, and if I go somewhere less populated he'll find me. And I don't want him to find me."

The police had initially assumed that it was a case of child abuse, he looked so young, until they asked who was going to find him and then he replied that it was a demon who was chasing him.

That was when they took him to Doctor Ratched's facility for treatment.

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><p>"Hello, Ciel." Doctor Ratched said, smiling at the young man. "How are we feeling today?"<p>

"He hasn't come for me yet." Mr. Phantomhive replied. "But it is only a matter of time."

Doctor Ratched decided to try a new tactic today, rather than trying to dissuade Mr. Phantomhive of his fantasies, he would try and explore it, and hopefully explode it outward. This was a tricky process because he would be technically giving credence to Mr. Phantomhive's belief, and that may drive him deeper into his imaginings, which wouldn't be productive.

"Ciel, tell me about this demon." He said carefully.

Mr. Phantomhive looked at him skeptically. "You've never asked me about him before."

"Well, we may be able to help you if you were to tell us more, we can protect you better from this…demon."

Mr. Phantomhive shook his head, "No, you can't, he'll win in the end, he always does."

"Explain."

Mr. Phantomhive leaned forward, "He says he is my family's servant, but that isn't the truth, we belong to him, see? All of us, we belong to him, my father and his father and his mother, everyone in the Phantomhive line all belongs to him. The only thing that we can be grateful for is that our spouses and second children don't have any of his allegiances'. And that's what marks us out as his."

"What happens to those who belong to him? Is it something like…?" Doctor Ratched tried to think of a civil way to put his thoughts into words.

Mr. Phantomhive threw him a look. "Not that, not sex, food. He devours our souls and he always wins, we all belong to him, and he will always find us, that is why I keep my eye covered, he can find me through my eye, he can look through it and see what I see and use that to find me." He wrapped his thin arms around himself and shuddered, rocking back and forth. His voice had never risen louder than normal speaking volume.

Doctor Ratched frowned skeptically at him, demons bound to a single line of humans? He had never heard of something like that. But why was he thinking of that? It was all nonsense anyway.

He struggled to regain his composure in the face of Mr. Phantomhive's wide –eyed earnestness and belief in his foolish ideas. This was just the thing he wanted to do, the things he wanted to cure people of.

Doctor Ratched coughed, "Now, Ciel, even if I have never met a demon before, I do know enough of my mythology to understand that no demon bows down to a human, it's simply not how it is done."

Mr. Phantomhive shook his head. "How do you expect me to explain it, he is old and clever and his mind works in ways that we cannot understand. Besides, he knows that he will win in the end, because he lives longer than any of us, he can watch us die without lifting a hand and then he can feed." He gave a short laugh. "Listen to me, I don't even know if it is a 'he' of if that is just the way it presents itself. I'll keep calling it 'he' though, because I don't know what else to call him, I've known him all my life." He slumped back again, apparently exhausted by his outburst.

Doctor Ratched took a moment to sort out his thoughts, this was an elaborate fantasy that Mr. Phantomhive had constructed for himself. He was no longer certain that he could help with this. Perhaps Mr. Phantomhive will be here for the rest of his life.

But maybe there was still hope "tell me, Ciel, when did you start believing this, don't you have any happier memories?"

Mr. Phantomhive smiled, "Yes, from years ago, but he was there even then, and now that I want to escape him, I can't. Maybe I could have, if my parents hadn't died. But now I'm stuck running away from him."

"Is that why you were originally so upset to be coming to our facility?" Doctor Ratched was fairly certain that he knew the answer. As soon as you got the way the patients thought you knew how they would react.

"Yes, and now that I can't leave he'll find me. He'll find me and say that he is here to protect me but I know the truth the truth is he'll just be keeping me and making me ready to feed him and I don't want this fate but I can't escape it it's my great great grandfathers fault and I don't want this…" Mr. Phantomhive's voice got softer and softer until Doctor Ratched couldn't tell if he was continuing with his spiel or if he was repeating himself over and over again.

"You know, Ciel, this is a secure facility. No one can get in or out again without allowance from the guards and the guards take their orders from the doctors. You are perfectly safe from this demon."

"No! You don't get it! He will come! He has us by the scruff of the neck! No, the throat! By the throat! He has us all by the throat!" Spittle was flying from Mr. Phantomhive's lips as he leaned forward. "He can do whatever he wants! No one could say no to him! He'll get what he wants, which is me, he was ordered to protect me, and that is what he is going to do, especially for his own gain." He barked out a sound that could have been a laugh or a sob. "By the throat! By the throat! He has us all by the throat!" He drew his knees up to his chin and started rocking, repeating the phrase over and over again.

Eventually he had to be sedated.

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><p>Mr. Phantomhive had been quiet after his outburst in Doctor Ratched's office. It was as if there had been a pressure valve that was released when he spoke. His behavior was normal, silence and card games and general compliance, and then all of a sudden his behavior turned for the worse.<p>

He began to start carrying his blanket around with him and wrap it around his thin body, in some cases pulling the edge of it over his head like a hood. And he started to talk more to himself, whispering things like "stay away" or "just leave me be" and one of the nurses managed to overhear an entire conversation between Mr. Phantomhive and an unknown person.

By listening to what all the witnesses were saying, Doctor Ratched realized that Mr. Phantomhive was talking to his demon. He remembered what Mr. Phantomhive was saying about orders, and wondered if the demon had started ignoring his. Then he reminded himself that there were no such things as demons and he needed to help Mr. Phantomhive by teaching him that.

He had needed to intervene directly when one of the orderlies had come to fetch him with the news that Mr. Phantomhive refused to come out of bed despite their best cajoling and actual lifting from the bed.

When he got there a slender hand had appeared from under the huddle of blankets and gripped is sleeve with surprising strength.

"Don't let him in." Mr. Phantomhive had rasped, "he's come to take me, don't let him in." Mr. Phantomhive's face appeared from under the edge of the blankets and stared at Doctor Ratched. He was pale and the eye that he could see was wide with genuine fear, the other eye, the one that usually had the patch on, was covered by a flop of grey hair.

Doctor Ratched reached out and gently took Mr. Phantomhive's hand. "You can be rest assured, Ciel, the demon won't come to get you, we won't allow anyone threatening in to come harm you or take you away."

Mr. Phantomhive looked at him, "that won't be enough; you are going to need to be certain in your feelings."

"I can assure you, I am.

"No, you aren't." Mr. Phantomhive retreated back into his blanket. "Just don't let him in. Don't let him in, don't let him in…"

A nurse appeared at Doctor Ratched's elbow.

"Doctor, there is a call for you."

As he left her could hear the nurse trying to soothe Mr. Phantomhive. When he picked up the phone he was given news that he had been waiting for.

Three days later, the doctor who said that he would be visiting Doctor Ratched's hospital arrived.

* * *

><p>Doctor Michaelis sat before Doctor Ratched's desk, looking mystified. Doctor Ratched really didn't want to explain to him why he had called him in. So far he had proven wonderful with the other patients, a soothing presence and one of the few rare ones who seemed to treat them as if they were full human beings. Doctor Ratched sometimes thought that he was being too lenient with them sometimes though, such as allowing himself to play an endless series of games of checkers with Mr. Anderson, who thought himself to be the reincarnation of the archangel Michael.<p>

But he was the source of a disturbance that needed paying attention to. Doctor Ratched sighed, "Doctor Michaelis, I know you are wondering why I called you here, so I'll just get straight to the point. I noticed that you enjoy spending a lot of time with the patients."

"I do," Doctor Michaelis was a very young doctor, his hair cut loose and choppily so it would frame his face, he looked too casual to have achieved an M.D. Doctor Ratched noted with disapproval, good reception with patients or not.

"The trouble is that you cause a great deal of distress to one of our patients, Ciel Phantomhive."

"Ah," Doctor Michaelis paused, "he's the one that is hiding under the blanket all the time, isn't he?"

"Yes, you see he thinks you are a demon, one that has been pursuing him. I haven't yet found a way to convince him otherwise. I truly think that he is going to be here for the rest of his life."

"I see, do none of the medications work on him?" Doctor Michaelis smiled slightly. It was truly odd; it almost looked as if he were laughing.

"None, they either don't work or the harm outweighs the benefits."

"Well, in that case, I think it would be a good idea for me to work with him." Doctor Michaelis smiled again.

Doctor Ratched bristled slightly, "Didn't I just tell you that I don't want you near him?"

"Oh, yes" Doctor Michaelis, had strange eyes, they were a shade of reddish-brown, and as he lifted his head slightly to catch Doctor Ratched's eye, it seemed to him that the red flecks in his eyes grew brighter. "But I am disagreeing; I think that I would be very good for the Master. I have been with him for so long."

There was something important about this, Doctor Ratched was sure of it, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It was hard when he was feeling so relaxed, and well, comfortable. He tried to formulate a response, but Doctor Michaelis was speaking again.

"You are a very good doctor, Doctor Ratched, but it would be best of the Master was left in my hands. I promise you that nothing bad will happen to him."

"You won't take him out of the ward, though." Doctor Ratched did his best to make himself sound sure and focused, not as if he were warming up to Doctor Michaelis' voice. It was warm and sophisticated, and it reminded Doctor Ratched of the warmly approving tones of his father. He had currently forgotten that his father was a cold, standoffish man who had standards that could never be met.

"No, of course not," Doctor Michaelis paused, "at least, not yet."

Doctor Ratched sat back, relaxing under the effects of Doctor Michealis' voice and eyes. "So, we don't have anything to worry about then?" Doctor Ratched said, voice strong once more.

"No, not at all."

* * *

><p>Doctor Ratched looked at Doctor Michaelis and Mr. Phantomhive. The latter was curled up with his blanket wrapped around himself, while the former was gently putting his arms around him and pulling at the blanket. It took a little time, but eventually Mr. Phantomive allowed him to pull the blanket completely off and wrap an arm around him.<p>

Mr. Phantomhive looked around, a pleading expression on his face. His eye met Doctor Ratched's and they glared with a hint of betrayal deep within the blue depths.

Doctor Ratched looked away and forgot about Mr. Phantomhive's predicament as soon as he did.

He also didn't notice the way that from then on Doctor Michaelis started to ignore all the other patients, his focus was totally on Mr. Phantomhive.

A week later, disaster happened. Doctor Ratched's facility had lost a patient. For some reason people also didn't notice that they had lost a doctor as well.

Except for Doctor Ratched, when he called the hospital that Doctor Michaelis had originally come from to make inquiries, he learned that Doctor Michaelis didn't exist. He could also find no trace of Mr. Phantomhive.

It continued to trouble him even if his mind turned to other things in the meantime, as they tended to do lately, as if his mind would not stick to the problem of Michaelis, whom ever he was, and Mr. Phantomhive.

The first time he was forcibly reminded was a month later when he had gotten a letter. The paper was expensive, smooth, creamy linen, and it wasn't marked with anything else except his name on the front of the envelope. As if someone had simply walked into the mail room and slipped the letter into his box. He carefully opened the letter.

_My Dear Doctor Ratched, _

_I hope this letter finds you in good health. I have written to you simply to tell you that the Master is safe with me. I won't tell you where since knowing you, you would immediately send someone after us in the misguided attempt to save the Earl. _

_Do not worry about him. I have him tucked away somewhere safe, away from anyone or anything that may wish to harm or scare him. You needn't worry about him._

_I also wish to thank you for keeping him safe for as long as you did, you kept him hidden very well, but I suppose he helped with that. _

_Also, this probably needn't be said, but I shall do so anyway: Do not tell anyone of this letter because doing so would put the Master in danger._

_Which is intolerable. _

_Yours etc._

_Sebastian Michaelis_

_The Phantomhive Butler_

Doctor Ratched folded up the letter with shaking hands, and for the first time in his life considered moving to India.

He wondered if it would be far enough.

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><p><strong>AN:** So, do you know what book it was that partially inspired this? Tell me in a review! Or any other comment, really.


	4. Hard Truths

**A/N:** For those who are watching, sorry for the slow update, I know this is short (really, really short), but it is sort of a filler while I'm working on a bigger, more complicated one coming up. I still think it has meaning though.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Kuroshitsuji, I do own Athena

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><p>They looked beautiful.<p>

The two of them, studies in contrast. Her father, dark and serious, dressed in the cool blues and greys that fitted his coloring the most. Her mother, bright and excitable, dressed in the radiant reds and golds that reflected her joyful nature.

They were sitting opposite each other in one of the tables of the library. Elizabeth Phantomhive was reading an adventure novel while Ciel Phantomhive was reading a mystery. Nevertheless they had both extended an arm across the table so that they could hold hands.

Athena Phantomhive loved her parents so much. And she loved the way that the two of them were in love. A fierce, equal, truthful love, as seen in the way that her father had his eye patch off to revealed his marked eye.

Her parents were best friends and confidents, her father disclosed completely to her mother about what he did, and she revealed what she had done behind the scenes to help him succeed.

Even though Athena looked at the two of them and felt that they would still be there, night after night until the day the two of them died at the same moment, slumping over that particular table in the library…she knew they wouldn't be. She knew that someday the butler would turn and become evil and take away her father's soul to devour and keep her parents apart for the rest of eternity.

She knew why, and yet she didn't.

She stepped away from the doorway of the library and padded down the hall to an empty room. Despite the fact that it was an unused parlor it was still spotless and dust free. Athena went over to the white velvet divan and sat down and she moved her hair, plaited down her back for sleeptime to over her shoulder, revealing the mark on the back of her neck, the same one as on her father's eye.

"Sebastian?" She whispered.

"You shouldn't be up so late, young mistress." Sebastian had appeared without a sound besides her, as if he had leaped from the shadows. Perhaps he had.

"Father explained to me, but I still don't understand why."

Sebastian was a good butler, he always understood what a member of his Family was talking about. He sighed and knelt down so the two of them could look at each other face to face.

"It was a deal, a very old deal that was made in desperation and desire. The Phantomhive family had fallen so very low, and your forefather declared that it would never do so again. All things have a price and my role in your family, then and now, has a price."

"How can people not think of the future?"

"It is astoundingly easy, young mistress, to not consider the future when you have a wildcard for the now. Other people need to worry about what comes next, because of me the Phantomhives don't."

"But they are so happy together," Athena whispered, "and they deserve to be together forever."

"It was decided long before either Lord Phantomhive or you were born, the same fate is for everyone who bears this mark." Sebastian pulled off his left glove to show Athena the back of his hand. "The Earl could have stopped it with himself, but he chose not to, none of the others even considered it."

"Haven't you ever felt love though? Couldn't you make an exception?" Athena asked desperately.

Sebastian had an expression of complete shock. His mouth opened and closed before he regained his composure. But even then he was silent for a while before finally speaking. "I did, once." He spoke slowly, unwillingly. "A long time ago, and it ended badly. My love… became hatred."

"Were you loved in return?" Athena asked, for she was, as the very young are, totally unaware of the butler's emotions.

"Yes, but they felt likewise, and if they didn't…I don't know what they felt, and I don't want to know how they feel now." Sebastian's expression was unhappy, which Athena finally detected.

She was silent, before she spoke quietly, "I love you, Sebastian. And I don't know how you feel about me, but it doesn't matter, does it? Because someday you will also eat my soul."

"The contract is absolute." Sebastian said, his voice was steady although there was a confusion of expressions on his face. He then sighed again. "Come, young mistress, it is time for you to go to bed." He gathered the six-year old into his arms.

"Is it bad?"

"Pardon?"

"Does it hurt in your belly? Is it like hell?"

"No," Sebastian said softly, "you will simply no longer be. It's a bit like sleeping without dreaming, I believe."

"I guess that wouldn't be so bad, to sleep forever." Athena said, resting her head on Sebastian's shoulder, suddenly sleepy.

"No, my young mistress, it wouldn't be at all." Sebastian said heavily, walking out of the parlor with his future in his arms.

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><p><strong>AN:** Heh, softy Sebastian. And none of you have guessed who the doctor is! Oh well, review!


	5. Assistance

**A/N:** I'm back! Any one miss me? *crickets chirp* You all know that I'm going to publish this anyway. I like the plot of this particular short rather than the actual way that I wrote this, so don't really expect too much of this, and it was unbeta'd so there may be mistakes.

**Disclamer: **I do not own Kuroshitsuji, and there is more of Wordsmith than Ciel and Sebastian in here, you have been warned.

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><p>"I don't really feel comfortable with this…"<p>

"We need someone to get into his head and get him to agree with us and fight for us."

"You're joking though, right? You have a kid locked up in this facility, and your taping him twenty-four seven and—"

"And he has something that we can use. His abilities are an asset to our nation and we aren't about to let him go. That would get us all fired from our jobs, including you."

"I'm just an analyst!"

"Listen Wordsmith, you are the best analyst we have and you are the top in predicting the actions of people and finding out their motivations. Now do that to the kid."

_Don't call me Wordsmith_, he thought. He knew it would have been a better idea to write under a pseudonym, but it had been a point of pride to publish his novel. And now he was paying for it with that stupid nickname.

He opened his mouth to try again. "But sir…"

"Shut it Wordsmith, usually someone in your position would kill to have this chance."

He shutted it. But he couldn't help but disagree. He joined the ranks of analysts in the government's intelligence agency in order to help his country, not to interrogate innocent kids with strange powers. None of the people he knew would kill to do this, well, maybe if they had met him at a spoon-bending party or something, but not in a locked reinforced concrete cell.

"You're scheduled to talk to the kid at ten o'clock tomorrow morning, devote the rest of the afternoon to reading up on the kid." His senior pointed a meaty finger at him. "If you can't get anything else at least get the kid's name and we can run it through the global computer, er, thingy. Got it?"

"Yessir." Wordsmith sighed as he put aside the material he was working on and then left his desk to request the appropriate records.

He started reading them over his lunch. There was no real collection of findings in the file per se, just a record of strange happenings, from the one that first caught the government's attention to the most recent.

The very first incident was a near automobile accident. The kid that was currently locked up in the facility had been jaywalking across the street when a drunk driver doing twice the speed limit had raced around the bend. All the witnesses agreed that the boy had frozen, yet by the time the car had passed through where he was, the kid was safely on the opposite curb.

That had first caught the attention of the Big Bosses, the mysterious figures in upper division government which examined everything within the country in order to see which resources that they can pick up in order to use for either war or defense that will eventually dissolve into war.

At least that is what the formal explanation is for gathering up so many resources.

And of course a boy with mysterious powers would certainly catch their eye, especially when the boy in question had not shown up on any government, hospital or any other record. In other words he doesn't even exist. The more likely answer was that he was an illegal immigrant, but in order to find out where he came from he would have to answer some questions.

So instead he had been watched, and the watchers were astonished by what occurred. The boy could walk through a dense crowd without being touched by a single person. He could go down an alley and vanish by the time his tail got to the entrance. Half the time he cast a shadow that was both too large for his body and the wrong shape all together. Four times out of five he could lose a tail without any apparent effort. It was like he had an angel sitting on his shoulder and whispering in his ear.

Finally though, they managed to catch the boy. It was smooth and quiet; he was going out for a walk in the afternoon on a holiday, a time when nobody was out. So a van managed to drive up and two agents jump out and snatch him into the van and drive off without him making a sound or anyone noticing.

And then things started getting strange, he said not a word as he was driven to the headquarters where he would be imprisoned. He smiled slightly when his eyes were covered and seemed unsurprised by his new home for the next few months. No amount of intimidation or interrogation was able to open him up; even the more _specialized _techniques gave no results. Well, no results save for all the agents who participated ended up in mysterious accidents that either killed them or removed them from duty permanently. There was one point where during one of these particular interrogations, the cameras and windows all went black at the same time and when they were light again, the interrogator was on the floor gibbering, and the boy was a serene as ever.

There were also other, smaller occurrences, like the different food that would show up from time to time. And the books that would show up one day but vanish the next. And there was that one week when a laptop with internet connection had shown up. And although it had been taken away the computer vanished from where it was being held only for it to show up back in the boy's cell the next day.

The longer Wordsmith read the report, the more certain he was that the boy should be let go. His senior was correct in that he had been trained to read patterns and make inferences as to what someone would do next. And right now his instincts were up. The entire time the boy, aside from the episodes of torture, seemed to be behaving playfully, and showing off. But Wordsmith was certain that the moment he got bored, or really angry was the moment that all hell would break loose.

He would do his duty and visit the boy and at least try to strike up conversation with him, but that would be it. Afterwards he would be lodging his objections with as many people as high up the chain of command that he could go. He didn't really think it would work, but it would be better than nothing. Still, the Big Bosses were always willing to try and find a new weapon, but so far this one wasn't cooperating. So then what would happen to this kid?

Wordsmith had a pretty good idea. The thought made him sleep fitfully that night. If the boy had caused this much destruction so far with harm to his person, how would he react to their trying to kill him?

But, despite how much he didn't want it to, the next day arrived, and with it ten o'clock in the morning.

Wordsmith eyed the reinforced elevators that led to the Lower Level, the series of underground corridors that snaked around underneath the government intelligence building, also known as the Hatbox. Of course these levels weren't on the blueprints available to the public eye, Wordsmith didn't even know about them, and he was certain that some of the original founders of his country would be turning over in their graves at the mention of such buildings and their additions.

Yet he was fated to find out about them anyway in his briefing that morning involving both the discussion of the Lower Levels and the types of security surrounding the boy that Wordsmith needed to bypass but the kid has apparently no trouble with.

Wordsmith began to wonder how stupid people managed to get better jobs than he did. And then spotting the boldly shining crucifix on one of his seniors' tie clip and remembered that it wasn't done by talent or intelligence, but who you knew.

The elevators slid open, revealing an armed guard ready to escort him. Wordsmith stepped somewhat nervously into the elevator. The guard pressed the button for him with the help of a key card, Wordsmith understood that even though he was being assigned to talk to the boy, he still would not know where he was going. This irked him slightly. The elevator trip seemed to take too long, and Wordsmith wondered how far into the earth he was disappearing. He couldn't stop the nervous thought that he might be lost down there forever.

When the doors finally slid open hand he and the guard stepped out, Wordsmith did his best to pay attention though he was soon lost. And was reduced to just following the guard. The hallways were unpainted concrete, with two doors side by side every twenty feet or so. The sight of the great metal doors with numbers etched on them as made Wordsmith's heart twist as he thought of all the people that could be trapped behind each and every door.

It took about ten minutes of walking before stopping in front of door number 616. Following the gesture of the guard he stepped through the unmarked door right next to it. In the room there was a table and a couple of chairs as well as a bank of electronic recording equipment. There was also a large one-way glass that showed the adjoining room that the boy was kept in. All he had was a bathroom and a room with a bed and a table.

The boy was sitting on the bed reading one of the forbidden books that he so mysteriously gotten. The light was so positioned in the room so that he didn't cast any shadow. Wordsmith was able to get a good look at him for the first time.

The boy seemed to be wearing an eye patch on his right eye, and his hair was a strange slate color, his visible eye was blue. Wordsmith could see the delicate blue veins in his neck and wrists and wondered how the kid could survive being trapped underground without any fresh air or sunlight and no company except for the occasional interrogator.

He turned to the guard next to him and prepared to tell him to take him out of there, but then he noticed the expression on the guard's face. It was one of the ugliest looks that Wordsmith has ever seen. It was unadulterated hatred.

"Do you know why there is only the two of us here?" The guard asked abruptly.

"No," Wordsmith answered cautiously.

"It's because everyone is scared of the little shit in there, they're afraid that he'll give them the evil eye or something. That's why they just come in to refresh the equipment and then leave. They trust the locks and the fact that this place is a fucking maze in order to keep him in. Be better just to shoot him, isn't that what all those fucking hippies say any way? 'Do without' or something like that?" He nodded decisively.

Wordsmith's instincts were up, either this guard was every bit as scared as those that he scorned or he lost someone somehow because of the boy.

Or he was just an ass.

Wordsmith looked at the kid again, he had to know that all the time he was being watched by people who would kill him if he didn't produce, yet he didn't seem the slightest bit upset or afraid.

Then he noticed something: the boy wasn't casting a shadow, but there was a shadow against the wall anyway, it seemed to be in the shape of a tall, thin man. He was slightly chilled by the sight, yes he had read about it in the files, but seeing it was something else altogether. He looked at the guard, but it seemed that he hadn't noticed the change.

He sucked in a deep breath, no matter what he needed to go in there. He turned and made for the door.

"Where ya goin'?"

"I'm here to talk to the boy, so that is what I am going to do." Wordsmith noticed that he sounded braver than he felt.

"Heh, and here I thought that you were just going to run away," the guard said, following him, "I'll be on the other side, waiting to let you out, so holler when you're done."

Wordsmith paused, "What is your name, anyway?"

"McKenna," the guard grunted.

Wordsmith nodded, and continued out the door. He turned right and waited for the guard to open the door, turning his head away to preserve security. Although he was willing to bet that McKenna didn't really care. He was either there because he was too stupid to be afraid, or he was hoping for a shot at the kid.

He cautiously stepped through the open door, and immediately glanced to the left, where the shadow-man was. It wasn't there, and he turned to the boy. He was sitting on the bed, looking at Wordsmith curiously; he set his book aside and continued staring.

"Hello," Wordsmith started off carefully, he considered trying to smile, and then decided against it. From what the kid has been though, he could probably smell false friendliness a mile away. "I'm here to talk to you for a little while." The boy continued to stare at him in that disarming way. It was a little disturbing to see such a small kid with (what Wordsmith privately thought of as) an old man's wound like a missing eye.

But then again this kid would have had to grow up quickly in order to survive the ordeals he has been through. The files had been very specific about the types of _specialized_ interrogations techniques administered to him.

Wordsmith decided that it wouldn't be wise to mention the state of the boy's eye, it wasn't a good way to start off a discussion with a reminder of a trauma, it would just make him shut down.

"Hello," the kid replied, his voice was hard to place. It was almost androgynous with the only clear thing about it was that he spoke English with a British accent.

"I'm—" Wordsmith started before he got interrupted by the boy.

"Wordsmith."

"I'm sorry?"

"Wordsmith," the boy held up the book he was reading, revealing that it was the novel he had written.

Wordsmith smacked himself in the face and sighed, so that nickname had made its way down here too. He realized that he had held an obscure hope that it hadn't.

They boy smiled, and Wordsmith noticed that he was an attractive child. But looking closer at him, he noticed that despite his diminutive size, he had to be at least fourteen.

"Are you here to interrogate me?"

"I'm her to talk to you, and I'll hope that you will tell me the truth because I think that this is the only reprieve that you are going to get."

"Well, if that is true, then I'm going to have to talk fast."

Wordsmith walked over to the table and took one of the two seats. He was disarmed at how educated and well-put together the boy sounded. Of course it is something that he anticipated, but that didn't really mean that he was prepared for it.

The boy walked over and took the other seat, and a chill shimmied down Wordsmith's spine as he watched a large shadow of a raven flap its way across the carpet and up the wall until it met the one way glass and disappeared.

He turned back, thinking that he really wasn't cut out for this kind of thing, he wasn't callous, he didn't have nerves of steel or a poker face, and he couldn't act like he had any of the three. For the first time he met the boy's eye, its hardness and calculating focus contrasted against the small smile on his lips. The expression was unsettlingly adult.

"My name is Ciel Phantomhive, and I have some information that will be of great interest to you."

Wordsmith, who had started to ask his first question, froze with his mouth hanging open. "Uh…" he said weakly as his mind raced. Why was the kid—_Ciel—_telling him this now? What purpose did it serve him?

While Wordsmith floundered for a response, Ciel continued to stare at him without a change in expression.

"I imagine you are wondering why I am telling you this, when I haven't said anything to anyone else the past few weeks I have been trapped down here."

Lips pressed tightly together, Wordsmith nodded.

"I also imagine you are wondering why I am telling you this while I am being recorded for review, and my answer to that question is that we are not being currently taped."

Wordsmith didn't say anything, let the boy talk, he would listen, he only allowed his response to be that of curiosity. The few instincts that evolution had left him is currently telling him that the boy currently held all of the cards.

"Out of all of the people who have come to ah, visit me these months were not the right kind of people, they didn't care the way you do."

Wordsmith was confused. "How is it you know what or what not I care about?"

In answer the boy stood up and lifted the cheap mattress from his sorry aluminum bunk, revealing papers, all sorts of papers. Some were loose, stapled or held in manila folders held shut by tight rubber bands. Ciel leaned down and waved his hand over the papers, making a little "ch-ch-ch" sound as he did.

"Ha," he said finally, "here it is, your personal file." The mattress fell down onto the stockpile with a soft thump as Ceil turned around, showing the reasonably-sized folder in his hands.

Wordsmith, the hardened professional that he was, choked on his saliva a little.

Ciel sat down opposite him again, "have some tea," he said dismissively.

Mechanically, Wordsmith obeyed, lifting the dainty bone-china cup that was by his wrist to his lips, it was only when the mint and honey scent hit his nostrils did he realize what he was doing. The thought made him start hard enough to drop the cup altogether.

It didn't shatter, instead a large, white-gloved hand caught it. Wordsmith watched the cup mutely as it rose up rest on the saucer again, and then he followed the arm up until he was looking a tall, attractive, red-eyed man square in the face.

"This is my butler, Sebastian, he has been the one kind enough to gather all the information you see underneath my mattress. Now it says only basic things here in this file, but it also has essays that you have wrote, and that is what caught my eye. You are a very intelligent man who is also skilled at deductive reasoning. And I also note that you are also both very sensitive and," he paused briefly with a slight twist of the mouth, "kind. Obviously you are the kind of person that I need to talk to the most about something of a sensitive nature."

Wordsmith had finally gotten his breath back, and was about to ask "Why me?" but he realized that this would be a foolish question. And Ciel is someone who would not tolerate foolishness. So he settled for: "Why, what is it you want to tell me?"

"It's really quite simple, there will be an assassination, and only someone in your position can stop it."

Sarcasm wasn't part of Wordsmith's usual repertoire, but he thought it was justified today. "And you can't stop whatever is supposed to happen, or _him_?" He poked his thumb at Sebastian the butler, who was peacefully refilling his master's teacup.

Ciel frowned, "listen carefully and treasure this moment, for this is the once in a blue moon time that I am going to admit to a mistake. It is my own fault for allowing myself to become noticeable. Only one government is supposed to be looking for me, and by the rules of alliance there will be a point when information will be shared and then I will actually be exposed to my true pursuers." He sat back and sighed. "I will need to vanish soon, I can give you as much information as you need, but you will have to figure out the how."

Wordsmith lowered his head, "What can you tell me right now?" he asked hoarsely.

"A lot, there will be an attempt, a very successful attempt unless we interfere, on the young candidate's life…"

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><p>Wordsmith slowly sat down at his desk, the return to the daylight had been a fog, and he was dimly aware that even McKenna looked slightly nonplussed by his behavior. He stared into space, not even aware that his name was being called until his supervisor slammed his hand down on the desk.<p>

"Wordsmith! What happened down there?"

He opened his mouth, not knowing what he was going to say, until a lie flew out of his mouth, "We talked, not about anything of importance, but it is a good start, he'll trust me eventually, and then I can get the information from him on who he is and where he came from."

"There is nothing you can give me now?"

"He had a…South African accent, and his name is Cecil, that's all I got from him."

His supervisor rumbled a laugh, "Very good! I knew you could do it." He walked away still chuckling, leaving Wordsmith to lean forward and rest his face in his hands.

He stayed in that position for a good long time before he slowly lifted his head again and turned to his computer. Slowly he plowed through the database until he found what he needed, and then he opened another file alongside it and compared the two. Wordsmith didn't dare risk using the printer, instead he pulled out the notebook he used for his ideas and wrote down all the information he needed: Price, contact capabilities, and where he could get the money.

Wordsmith pretended to work, while in reality he slowly formed his plan, carefully looking it over for any flaws whatsoever. Even although there was no really safe way for him to do this, he had to do the best that he could.

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><p>It is a well-known fact that governments lie to their people. They don't bother to release information about dangers to the public until they are a threat they cannot control. Military technology is actually about a generation ahead of what is released to the public. Human experiments have occurred in the past…and they are still going on right now. And what is best for the government isn't always the best for the people.<p>

All of these were the reasons that Wordsmith was able to meet a man with a chip on his shoulder to interfere with an assassination that his own government was initiating.

The man he was meeting asked to be called Ash. He was a product of government mind control experiments on children, the results were disastrous. The only living product was a paranoid, pale-haired man who was willing to do anything to strike back. In other words, he was exactly what Wordsmith needed.

It was decided that the two of them would meet in a botanical garden, Wordsmith was careful to clear his throat loudly and make his steps noisy so as to alert Ash ahead of time of his presence. If he had appeared too suddenly he knew that Ash would lash out at him. Despite his efforts though, Ash was still twitchy. He hid it very well, but it was hard for him to hide the way that his eyes flicked around, each eyeball was practically independent of each other.

"You said that you needed my help for something?" Ash stated as Wordsmith lowered himself onto the bench next to him, his voice was dry and whispery, his words rushed.

Wordsmith swallowed hard. "When I made contact, you stated that you would do the job that I requested without a price…"

"And I mean it, as long as you are true to your promise that it is an act against the people who made me this way."

"I have been assured that it would be contrary to their plans, yes." Wordsmith answered carefully.

"Tell me, I can see your hesitancy!" Ash demanded sharply, the harsh jerk of his head sending one of his eyes quivering anew, sickening Wordsmith slightly.

Slowly, Wordsmith recounted all that he had been told by Phantomhive, and before long Ash was nodding appreciatively, and smiled when he was finished.

"Yes, this certainly will strike a blow at them, the ones who did this to me." He declared, cackling harshly, "I will do it! Even if it kills me, and it probably will." He added smiling slightly too wide.

Wordsmith sighed in relief, "Do you know how it will be carried out, or…" he trailed off uncertainly.

"I'll take care of it," Ash said, patting Wordsmith on the arm in a way that was supposed to be reassuring. "You just sit back and watch I'm not to harm the candidate, right? Of course not, and you told me just how it is going to be played out, so there is no worries."

He stood up and walked away, still cackling to himself, leaving Wordsmith on the bench in the botanical garden alone, hoping that everything would go as it was supposed to. Hoping that Ash wouldn't get caught, and if he did that he wouldn't admit to Wordsmith's involvement. Internally he was cursing Phantomhive for getting him involved in this, and then admitted to himself that he wouldn't sure who he would trust to carry this out himself.

All Wordsmith could do was hope.

XX

In the end, everything went as planned, it was circulating the media for the following two weeks, the pale-haired man who jumped on stage next to the candidate as a number of people with no distinguishing features pulled their guns on him. He fired wildly at the group of assassins as he had gripped the candidate around the waist and pulled him away from the podium and shoved him into the arms of the more loyal security agents. Who then promptly tackled him to the ground as a less loyal agent, who worked for the other side, shot him in full view of everyone.

In other words there was an uproar, which continued for the subsequent weeks as the election was carried out safely and government offices was emptied of people and then filled with new ones.

Wordsmith sat in the middle of it all, the calm in the eye of the storm, no one blamed the analysts, it was an attack that came from the inside, so there was no chatter to warn of the incident. And of course no one suspected that any of the analysts were involved.

There wasn't even a peep out of Ciel, who elected not to say a word more to either Wordsmith or any other interrogators and who disappeared from beneath the Hatbox a mere day after the attempt on the candidates life.

Wordsmith was glad to see the proverbial back of him, the knowledge of what he had done shook him. Sometimes in his mind's eye he saw the boy, his indifferent gaze and his cool, haughty smile and wondered where he was now. Instinctively he knew to boy was hard before he fell into the hands of government interrogators.

He shivered at the thought of them both, the child and the butler. Alien in ways that can't totally be described in words, and even worse, he knew that there was no guarantee that he was really done with the two of them, or they with him.

They had a hold on him now, for better or for worse even if they weren't actually there. Eerie and other enough to grasp him though his memories, he wasn't safe in any shape or form. He dare not even try and extract them from his mind through the medium of paper.

Because they would know if he had, they would know.

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><p><strong>AN: **There you have it. Review if you like...


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